Vash the Stampede is Dead
by Shadsie
Summary: The end of one life, the beginning of a new one. The past left among the ashes of Augusta.


Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun. I hope you figured that out on your own, genius. Still, for legal reasons, I post that I don't own Trigun. My fanfiction is but humble homage to the characters and the world created and owned by Yasuhiro Nightow.

This is my own take on what happened between anime episodes 15 and 17. It can be taken as something that happened between the Trigun manga and Trigun Maximum manga, but I was thinking about the anime when I wrote this – so it is anime based rather than manga based. Hope you enjoy.

VASH THE STAMPEDE IS DEAD

He blinked and sucked in air through dry nostrils. The first thing he noticed, besides a dull throb coursing through his body, and the fact that he was alive, was that the world was dark. The night had a pale blue-gray color, the color that night had when it was lit by one or more full moons.

The air smelled of plaster, cracked adobe, oil and smoke, old wood, dust and rust. He had a terrible flavor in his mouth, like if he were holding pennies on his tongue – a metallic flavor. He recognized it as the taste of his own blood. Rust smell was everywhere. Daggers of pain struck him when he tried to move. His legs felt numb. His shoulder felt like it was torn apart – a burning sensation, yet sticky and wet. He felt the pulse of his veins in his temples, flashes of pain and sparks of light in his head.

_Where am I? What happened? Who am I? _

He gazed up at the sky.

_What's with the moon? Did it always have a crater that big? No... no... it didn't. It looks like the edges of it are on fire. What the Hell? _

He moved, pain stabbing through him, dust and debris falling from him. He coughed several times. He noticed the metallic taste in his mouth again, that taste like sucking on a rusty nail. He noticed feathers on the ground around him, white feathers and white feathers stained with red. Something red clung to his body, tattered fabric and leather, coated and soaked in spots with a dark wine color. He knew that this place was deserted, even before he gazed upon it. He didn't know much right now, but he knew that this place was deserted.

Shadows stretched toward him from piles of wreckage in silhouette. Twisted steel shone in the moonlight. Small fires cast light upon the destruction in various places. Scattered clothing and furniture littered the scene. Cars and trucks lay scattered like toys left out in a front-yard by careless children. Children's toys, too, littered the streets – dolls, toy trucks, figures and books lay among broken glass, papers, photographs, cans, bottles, and the broken bricks and plaster of what once made up the walls of dwellings.

The man walked stiffly. He knew he was hurt, and badly. He knew, also, that he would not find a physician to help him in this silent city. He limped past the great face of a clock – its clear glass lens shattered, its hands twisted, half-embedded in the ground. The lofty tower in which it was once ensconced was now mounds of broken brick and splintered steel.

He looked up at the moon again. A single thought came to his mind.

_I did that. _

He gazed over the debris surrounding him.

_I did this; _he thought. _I know who I am now. That's right... I'm Vash the Stampede. _

He started laughing. "Yes!" he said to himself. "Yes! Of course! Of course! It all makes sense now! I... I destroyed another city! This is just like July! Beautiful, simply beautiful!"

He looked down behind himself. A sparkle of light from a nearby fire glared off the gun. That was his gun, yep. That was the gun his brother gave him. That was the catalyst for this whole disaster. The man laughed again.

"Yeah... this was Augusta. First July, now Augusta. What's next? September? Wait... no.. there's no city named September! Silly me."

He laughed until he coughed again, the sad, angry, frightened, mirthless laugh of a madman. He was laughing to keep his sanity. He started walking toward the empty desert that he saw past the rubble. He left the gun behind, resting in bloodstained earth.

"Rem," he whispered, speaking to a memory, "Rem... I can't do this anymore... Rem.

He found a blanket on the ground. He picked it up and wrapped it around himself as a guard against the cool of the night. He knew that his body was shivering also, because he had lost blood. His body told him that it would die if he did not get help. He pressed onward, walking despite the pain that seared through him with every step, the stiffness of his muscles, and the numbness of his extremities. He continued talking to the spirit he was sure was watching him from somewhere.

"Rem..." he said, "I tried to take care of him... I really did. I failed you. I can't find him, Rem. Whenever I get close, something gets destroyed. This happens. People loose their homes, their livelihoods... people die. Rem... whenever I get close to him, people die, people die... The closer I get, the more people suffer."

The man choked back tears. His lips were dry, his throat sore. His tears felt thick, almost syrupy, and his eyes felt dry. He blinked.

"Knives you..." he coughed again. "I... I destroy everything I touch. As long as I am Vash the Stampede... this will happen. There will be more cities like this... as long as... as long as... Be best for everyone if I died – if Knives... had no one to convert... Maybe he'll kill himself. Maybe he'll just leave everyone be."

The man raised his head and shouted to the sky, and to the moon with its light-ringed crater. "Knives!" he screamed. "Knives! I'm not playing anymore! I'm not chasing you anymore! No more! No more! I'm dead! You hear me? Knives, I'm dead!"

He glanced behind his shoulder at the wreckage he was leaving. He knew that Kasted Town wasn't too many isles away. He'd walk there, if he could, or maybe he'd collapse and die in the desert. He didn't really care. Survival instinct pushed him forward, as well as the memory of a beloved woman kept in his heart. Rem wouldn't want him to just give up, to let himself die. If he did die in the desert, however, he was at peace with that. He wasn't afraid anymore. The world would be a safer place without Vash the Stampede.

He clutched the blanket close, coughed, and staggered. "I'm Ericks now," the man said to himself. He looked back over the ruins that were once Augusta a final time before pressing on in his chosen direction. He did not know if he was even going the right way to Kasted. He whispered into the wind. "Vash the Stampede is dead."

Shadsie, 2005


End file.
